Of Song and Water (32 page)

He puts his foot on one of the legs and tries to give it a shake. It doesn't move. Pretty solid, he says to himself. But he's not convinced. The tubular steel looks flimsy. It seems to him that someone with a heavy boot could kick the cradle to pieces. “It'd be simple,” he whispers, “like knocking a leg out from under a table.”

He knows he'll need a ladder to get on board, but he chooses to leave that for another time. He doesn't want to go up there now. He has no stomach for throwing himself over the gunwale and stepping into the cockpit. He considers it unwise to open the cabin on an overcast day with a dank smell coming up from below. If he went aboard, he'd feel the boat trembling in its new cradle and glimpse the darkness belowdecks, the gray light piling up like unclean water. At this hour, on the old trembling boat, going down the companionway would be hopeless. Trying to see precisely what happened, trying to see anything at all, would be a hopeless effort. He doesn't want it. He'll leave things just as they are.

 

HE DRIVES to the Lighthouse Diner, parks in front, and sits in his pickup until Heather, taking an order, glances out the window and recognizes the truck. He watches her as she unties her apron and says a few words to the other waitress. A customer holds the door open and she steps over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. She walks slowly and stops at the curb.

“You still mad?” he says.

“Sometimes,” she says. She hooks her thumb on a belt loop.

“Why won't you answer my calls?”

“Mom said you were drinking again.”

“I always drink.”

“She said you were drunk.”

“I've only had water today.”

“Should I be impressed?”

“No.”

“You look terrible.”

He nods. “You look beautiful.”

She almost smiles. “Are you working on the boat?”

“No.” He catches her eyes but then she turns away. “Are you leaving soon?” he says.

“A week from Monday.”

“Can I drive you to the airport?”

She drops her head. “Mom already said she would.”

“Okay,” he says. “What are you doin' Saturday?”

“Don't know,” she says.

“Are you working?”

“No.”

“Well, what would you say if I told you we could see Brian James?”

Her face lights up for a second, but then she shrugs. “I think there's a party Saturday night.”

“C'mon. Let your old man take you out on the town. He's playing in Ann Arbor.”

She comes closer to the door. “At the Bird of Paradise?”

“At the Bird.”

She balances on the curb. “I'll have to make a couple of calls.”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “It's pretty short notice. We could have dinner first and get there for the late show.”

“What time would you wanna leave?”

“Let's go in your car,” he says. “We shouldn't roll up at the Bird in a dusty truck.”

She smiles. “Sure.”

“Then it's a date,” he says. “Pick me up around six.”

She hears people coming out of the diner. “I gotta go,” she says.

“Saturday,” he says, starting the engine.

Heather runs around the other side of the pickup and leans into the cab and kisses him on the cheek. He lets her slip away and then sees her again inside the diner wrapping herself in a clean white apron.

He listens to the truck's smooth idle and imagines sitting in with Brian at the Bird of Paradise. To get there, I'll have to start now, he thinks, opening both hands and pushing his fingers against the wheel. He congratulates himself for having the courage to invite Heather, but then he's bothered by second thoughts. Having her on board means he can't change his mind. If he runs into a problem, there's no easy way out.

Pulling away, he feels an urge to keep going, to find the place where she once needed him – a night when she couldn't sleep and cried for a story or a song. And where in the world was that place? he wonders. Was I young then? And how young was she? He wants to remember when music was a fastrunning stream, an unspoken prayer, when his fingers pressing lightly on the strings could make something beautiful and whole. Now, the music like water eludes him – his daughter, too.

 

WHEN he gets home, he gathers up the pills in the kitchen, pours the remaining vodka down the drain, and rinses the one glass he used the night before. He runs the water until it's cold. He bends and puts his mouth under the faucet and drinks more than he thought his stomach could hold. He tosses his dirty clothes in the laundry and throws out his duffel bag. He plumps up and arranges the sofa's green pillows. He wants to keep the house exactly as the landlord left it.

Below the sink in the bathroom, he finds a bar of lavender soap. He doesn't
know how it came to be there. He peels off the plastic wrap, his fingers stiff but able, and carefully lays the bar in the soap dish on the rim of the tub.

He showers in cool water, enjoying the spray on his neck and back, the narrow streams falling down his body like silk. He lathers his arms and chest and fills himself with the scent of lavender. He lets out a deep breath and feels wobbly. He leans against the tile wall and tries to focus on the bottle of shampoo and, next to that, the razor. The dizziness passes and he bows his head beneath the drenching nozzle – the water rushing and bubbling in his ears.

He sleeps that night without disturbing the bed and brews coffee in the morning before making oatmeal for breakfast. After washing his bowl and spoon, he sits at the table and makes a shopping list. He'll go to the market and bring home fish, vegetables, and rice – maybe some pork. He'll set a small basket on the counter and fill it with tomatoes and peaches.

Over the next couple of days, he establishes a routine. He showers in the early morning and again in the evening. He cooks uncomplicated meals and eats in the kitchen. He drinks hot tea or bottled water. When he finishes what he's doing in a particular room, or in a particular corner of that room, he immediately picks up after himself. He keeps the newspapers and magazines in separate piles. If he moves the footstool or a chair, then he uses the markings on the rug to put it back in its proper place.

Having changed the strings and adjusted the neck, he takes his guitar out of the case and plays for two hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon, his mind blank but his fingers remembering. By the fourth day, his left hand is surprisingly nimble, and the ache in both hands is almost dull, manageable, a pain he can live with, at least for the moment, without pills.

 

BY SATURDAY at six he feels a year or two younger. He stands at the picture window and waits for Heather to appear. He smells rain on the air, the sky
darkening to the northwest. It makes him glad that the house is in good order. He can leave and lock the door and not be preoccupied. Humbug remains, of course, tasking him like a paper cut, but he won't think about the boat until tomorrow or the next day.

Heather pulls into the driveway. He slips into his sport coat, picks up his guitar, and walks out onto the porch. He rotates the key and hears the dead bolt click.

“I don't believe it,” she says, stepping out of the car.

“What?”

She points at his guitar. “You're going to play?”

“Maybe.”

‟Don't be a tease,” she says. ‟You've already made up your mind – otherwise, you wouldn't bring it.”

He walks down the steps and marvels at her confidence, the perfect ease of her movements. “It's good to see you,” he says.

She hugs him. “Thanks.”

He holds her tight. “I'm glad you came,” he says.

“I would've said yes right off if you'd told me you were going to sit in.”

He smiles. “How do I look?”

“You clean up nice.”

He puts his guitar in the backseat. “Boy, you even got it washed,” he says, seeing his reflection in the roof of the car.

“It's clean,” she says. “But don't open the trunk.”

“I won't.”

She takes in the sky. “Those are some mean clouds. Did you remember your windows?”

“They're all set.”

He watches the way she turns the key in the ignition and drops the car into
reverse, checking the mirrors and then glancing over her shoulder. She drives – talking all the way to Ann Arbor about her ambitions for school and how much she'll worry about him while she's away.

“Without you here,” he says, “there's not much reason to stay.”

“What about the boat?”

He shrugs.

“You can't sell it,” she says.

“No. I suppose not.”

“What then?”

“Leave it in the yard, I guess. It seems to like it there.”

“Where would you go?” she says.

“Not sure. Maybe Chicago.” He notices the blinker on the dashboard flashing.

She changes lanes. “And you'd start playing again?”

He laughs. “No. I don't think so.”

“You should see a new doctor – a young doctor – about your hands. I bet there's some sort of modern therapy you could get.”

He looks at his crooked fingers. “I could probably find a lot of young doctors in Chicago.”

She stops at the traffic light. “You'll never go.”

“You never know,” he says. “But in the meantime I could find a better job.”

“Like what?”

“Does it matter?”

“You say it matters for me.”

“It does. It's your time.”

She gives the keys to the handsome valet who opens the door and stares at her legs when she slides out of the car.

He takes his guitar into the restaurant and requests the table for four at the
edge of the room directly across from the bar. He asks the hostess, despite her obvious displeasure, to remove the extra chair on the side where he'll be sitting. He sets his guitar there and leans it against the wall.

Heather catches the waiter's eye. The young man stops and asks her if she'd like a drink. She orders a Coke.

He glances at the waiter. “I'm fine with water,” he says, then waits for the guy to leave. “I know I've said it before, but I'm sorry about graduation.”

“Is his mother suing you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You caught me off guard,” she says. “It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen you do.”

He nods.

“Do you have a secret life?” she says. “Do you put on a mask and go out at night and look for damsels in distress?”

“What if I did?” he says.

“I'd say you were silly.”

“Now you sound like your mother.”

“Ouch.”

“Well, what if I did make up my mind to go out and do things – help the needy – or get a cat down out of a tree?”

“I'd be worried,” she says. “Especially for the cat.”

He laughs. “Okay, we're even.”

The waiter delivers the drinks and then lingers.

“Give us a few minutes,” he says. “We haven't opened the menu.”

Heather watches the waiter turn to the next table. “I don't need protecting, you know.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know. But I think you started too young. If I'd been there – ”

She bends the straw in her drink. “Let's not talk about that.”

“I don't completely understand it myself,” he says. “When I saw that kid try to grab you, when I heard what he said, a part of me gave way – it was like a door or a floorboard cracking. I couldn't stop myself.” He sips his water. “At first, it didn't strike me as foolish.”

“If I tell you something,” she says, “you have to promise not to tell Mom.”

“No chance,” he says.

“When it happened, I was embarrassed – mortified, really. But afterward, a part of me felt another way – almost proud.”

“You don't have to say that.”

“I'm not making it up,” she says. “Mom goes on about how it was a crazy and pathetic thing to do. And it was crazy. And then, at the same time, it felt like you didn't care about anything else but me.”

“That's kind,” he says.

“No,” she says. “It's true.”

“I wish we could go back,” he says, “and start over.”

“Why?”

“So I could be there more and make you feel safe.”

“You did enough of that,” she says. “Why go back? We'd all be the same anyway. Do you want me to be different?”

“No,” he says. “I can't imagine you any other way.”

She smiles. “Then there's no point in going back.”

 

THEY take their seats at the Bird of Paradise just as Brian walks into the spotlight and welcomes the audience.

Heather fools with the position of her chair and then leans toward the stage, her eyes bright with seeing Brian after so many years.

The piano begins the set with a cascade of notes that calls up the ghost of Art Tatum. After twelve bars, the hi-hat kicks in, crisp and steady, and then
Brian runs up from below. At a right angle to the piano is an electronic keyboard. The guy playing reaches over as the music builds and lets fly a few heartbreaking riffs, the lines fluid and deep and sounding like they've come from an old Hammond organ.

Brian's solo is modest, creating a generous field for both the piano and drums. The trio is tight, cleaner and purer than anyone would think possible, and what comes through right away is the wisdom of Brian's mature style, how he listens for each nuance and keeps himself open to mood, color, and movement. When Brian drops in a new idea, the drummer smiles and tries to answer with something fresh.